


Periphery

by sleaterkinner



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Character, F/F, F/M, POV Third Person, Queer Nymphadora Tonks, Sirius Black Lives, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:48:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25291894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleaterkinner/pseuds/sleaterkinner
Summary: "The more she learned about Lord Voldemort’s mission, the more she realised it sought to recover and enforce the very things she most disliked about the wizarding world, the things that had always made her feel unwelcome: blood purity, social conservatism, magical supremacy. Maybe this was the purpose she’d been looking for."An old friend of Tonks’ joins the Order. Sirius/female OC. Slow burn, queer romantic friendships and the trials of war. Mostly canon-compliant from HBP onwards except Sirius lives.
Relationships: Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks, Sirius Black/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	1. Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I love and support trans women and their right to define their existence on their own terms. If you support JK Rowling's transphobic views, I kindly ask that you don't engage with this story.

The London skyline stood out in relief against the peach sky. A warm July evening filled the streets below with people on their way to or from, and the air crackled with the potential of summer. It was far from the first time in his life he’d sat on the roof of his family home observing the Muggles walking the streets below with envy, though not always for the same reason.

As a child, Sirius had wished he and his brother would be allowed outside to play with the neighbouring children. In his teens, returning home for the summer holidays, he would watch young people pass by with their gravity-defying hair, tight-fitting clothes and smoking white cylinders hanging loosely from their lips, driving his mother into a frenzy when she happened to glance outside - “ _they get worse and worse, just look at them, the filth…” -,_ and he couldn’t help but admire their disregard for everything proper. Then, returned from Azkaban and persuaded to sit tight in the childhood home he had so despised, he looked down and wished desperately that he could switch places with any one of them, that he could walk down a street without fear, that he could meet friends for a drink and a laugh, fuck, that he even _had_ friends left apart from Remus, and that the whims of a raging genocidal lunatic hadn’t dictated the entirety of his adult life.

Sirius knew there was change in the air, though the last few years had tampered his usual optimism. He’d been formally cleared of all charges after the battle in the Department of Mysteries, after which Fudge had been convinced of Voldemort’s return, though a pardon remained to be seen. The Ministry was hardly in a position to admit to any more lapses in judgement, and informing the public of his imprisonment without trial, the ensuing country-wide search that gripped both the wizarding community and the Muggle world for two years, and the false scapegoating of the last year, would need to be left to a less testing time. As it was, Sirius was a free man in the judicial sense, but in reality, this meant little when all of wizarding Britain still thought him a dangerous murderer.

He’d been able to drive his motorcycle at night, though, and the temporary escape helped ease the tension itching under his skin. He imagined he would be free to walk around Muggle London, where his face would have been long forgotten and there were no ties to his past, but he hadn’t yet felt quite up to it. They were facing a different beast, now that Voldemort's return had been publicised, and the future beyond an impending catastrophe, worse than the murders and disappearances, bore heavily on everyone's mind. His penchant for hedonism had only gone so far in keeping him sane the first time round, and he was a different man now, with smaller reserves of goodness than of burbling, vengeful feelings. Often he felt so overcome by superseding waves of resentment, anger, guilt, that he become too incapacitated to perform even the pitiful supporting roles he had been afforded, as host to the Order and ineffectual parent to Harry. Before, he picked fights with anyone that would bite, most notably (and shamefully) the childhood nemesis he had used for the same reason more than two decades prior. At some point, though, he realised his prickliness had a direct relation to the frequency of his visits, and he made a conscious effort to rely exclusively on the coping mechanism he resorted to when the house was empty, which was to shut himself in his teenage room and let the walls have it until he could play nice again. Drinking helped, as did having people around, an unreliable occurrence. Whenever he dwelled on this sorry state of affairs, he reminded himself of his godson as if summoning a Patronus, his as well as the wizarding world’s one ray of hope, according to Dumbledore. He was counting down the days for Harry to arrive at Grimmauld for the summer.

Kreacher had been dismissed to the Hogwarts kitchens on Dumbledore's orders, after the discovery of his assistance with Sirius' near-death experience, and the elf's welcome absence seemed to lessen the constricting, suffocating effect of the house, although it was hard to tell. And there were changes, too, to his solitary living situation. Aside from Remus, who had always been more of an honorary tenant, but now more so, spending most of his time on werewolf-recruiting missions, Sirius now shared residence at the headquarters with fellow Order member Jean Caldwell. It was common sense - her home had been targeted by Death Eaters after the battle, she had nowhere else to go, and here he had spare empty rooms - with a side of gratitude, as the young Unspeakable had Summoned him away from the veil in the Death Chamber when she’d realised just how close he'd been to falling through it, and was hit with Dolohov’s curse on her arm in the process. On a more selfish note, there was, of course, the ongoing problem of his terrible isolation, and he was almost embarrassingly happy to have any other person to exchange words with apart from the paintings of his dead relatives.

And so far, it had been a surprisingly positive arrangement. Jean turned out to be a very pleasant housemate, even compared to old Remus. While the latter was usually too tired to provide much in the way of company save for a late cup of tea, sometimes indulging him in remembering their better times, the young witch favoured her drink, her cigarettes, and her Muggle music records, all of which she had been happy to share with him since her move a few weeks prior. She was good friends with his cousin Tonks, and provided extra incentive for the young Auror to visit, now that Remus had succeeded in burning that bridge. They restored the occasional tradition of a nightcap and a few rounds of Exploding Snap, Jean taking Remus' place. Other times, when he was in a mood and took to bed early, the two would instead have their own private dance party in the drawing room, pushing the furniture away and taking advantage of the two-way Silencing Charms in the house to blast their music and jump around. All in all, she’d brought a bit of light and youth to the home, and for that he was thankful.

There was also the fact that she was a very attractive witch, to which he was, of course, not blind. It had been strange at first, being in such close quarters to a real, live, pretty young woman, one that, in different circumstances, would ostensibly have been very much within his limits, unlike everyone else he came in contact with through the Order. After twelve years in prison, two on the run and one under house arrest, Sirius found himself somewhat deprived of the sort of intimate exchanges that had come so easily to him in his previous life (aside from the faint memory of one interrupted, almost-encounter with a visiting Charlie Weasley). As a result, he’d had to force himself to appear nonchalant the first few times he’d run into Jean after she returned from work and changed into her Muggle loungewear. He felt he had successfully adjusted, except for one time in the kitchen, at breakfast, when she’d stretched her arms above her head and her light top had ridden a little too high, and he'd sputtered his tea. Though he welcomed the feast to his senses, he had no intention to pursue a witch more than ten years his junior living under his roof. He remembered Remus’ voiceless words in his head, as he headed out after the meeting in which the move had been decided,turning to him with a raised brow he knew only too well - _Don’t do anything stupid, Pads._

The sun had set, and Sirius felt the cool drops of water on his face of an English summer rain. He climbed down the ladder leading into the house and closed the attic door, making his way for the drawing room where he hoped he might find company.

*

She made herself a cosy cocoon for the evening. A dim orange light surrounded the drawing room's seating area, ebbing from the candlesticks encased in the elegant crystal chandelier. The curtains were drawn back and the windows open to let in the warm breeze, her bandaged arm was nestled on a pile of small cushions, and she had conjured a fuzzy blanket to cover her naked legs. Arthur Russell's _World of Echo_ was playing from her magically-powered used record player, which had taken residence on top of one of the ornate glass cabinets flanking the fireplace. As she fingered though the paperback to find a dog-eared page, she sighed happily into the glass of expensive wine she’d discovered during today’s explorations. _If only_ she could tell her friends about this very strange, lavish life she was currently inhabiting. Despite the circumstances that had brought her here, the past two weeks of living at number twelve, Grimmauld Place had felt a little bit like a vacation. The closest to this kind of comfort she had experienced had been her time at Hogwarts and, to a much lesser extent, her one stay at a Muggle hotel in Blackpool. Basic necessities such as food, laundry and housekeeping were simply taken care of and required no upkeep; but much more fascinating to her were material comforts that just seemed par for the course in an upper-class, Pureblood family home, such as the wine cellar and extensive library. In contrast, the house's forbidding atmosphere and sinister reminders of its past inhabitants seemed negligible to her.

Her home since she had left school had been a small attic room in Peckham, in a house-share with two Muggle boys who played together in a band. She accepted an internship at the Department of Mysteries, drawn to the scholarly side of the work, but enjoyed coming home to people with whom she could discuss other parts of her life - and the Muggle world was a part of her life she had never been interested in giving up. Aside from Tonks, she didn't keep in touch with very many people from Hogwarts, and her magical acquaintances were limited to a small handful of London-based wizards and witches, mostly Muggle-borns, that she knew from the gay scene. The way she saw it, the one benefit to being Muggle-born was not being restricted to either of the two worlds, and Jean saw it as her right to craft her life however she wanted, taking what she needed from each side. By day she wore robes and pored over treaties about magical phenomena, sometimes joining her colleagues in the refectory and listening to them chat about the newest headlines in a nationally-circulated paper with moving photos that she could never take home with her; at night, she donned whatever was dark, shiny and revealing, and danced to the dizzying thump of staccato bass, high on the feeling of sweaty communion, a kind of magic she had never found in the tip of her wand. Her long-term plan was to eventually shift to working part-time at the department and attend Muggle university, maybe join a band, maybe write magical dyke novels someday.

That was, of course, before Broderick Bode was killed at St Mungo’s, and Tonks scooped her up one afternoon after work to have a serious talk. From then, she started attending meetings for a secret organisation called the Order of the Phoenix in this very house. She was too aware of the insularity of their world to muster any surprise at the fact that it comprised her former headmaster and head of house, her ex-girlfriend, the werewolf she was currently, puzzlingly, obsessed with, a long lost cousin and infamous escaped convict, and a small squadron of people all boasting intricate personal ties to each other. Not exactly the gang of radicals she initially pictured. At first she’d been unsure of her commitment, though she felt strongly that these people were fighting a meaningful fight, and volunteered whatever information she could about accessing the department. But the more she learned about Lord Voldemort’s mission, the more she realised it sought to recover and enforce the very things she most disliked about the wizarding world, the things that had always made her feel unwelcome: blood purity, social conservatism, magical supremacy. She thought of all the children she’d known at school who felt out of step, like her, and tried so hard to fit in, and the ones who had adapted but had disowned parts of themselves in the process. And she thought of what would become of the wizarding world if the Death Eaters succeeded, an already archaic bubble becoming smaller and smaller, or worse, waging war on Muggle Britain. Maybe _this_ was the purpose she’d been looking for.

The battle in the Department of Mysteries had been her first experience of real-life duelling. It had been frightening, and left her injured - her arm was still bandaged and would likely be permanently scarred - but something about being in a roomful of people, surrounded by comrades-in-arms, had made her feel marginally safe. As she saved Sirius and Harry from what could potentially have been a terrible accident, she knew that others could have stepped in for her. In the end, having successfully rescued the teenagers and sent all the Death Eaters to Azkaban had been exhilarating.

The real fright came days later, as Jean made her way to the underground on her way to an Order meeting at Grimmauld Place. Soon after locking the door to her flat, she sensed she was being followed and didn’t even think it could be anything other than a Muggle assailant before she saw the familiar masks come into her field of vision. She Disapparated in a cold panic, feeling her good arm being snared in a rope-like grip. In a split second, she remembered one of Mad-Eye’s speeches about good defensive practices, and decided her best chance was to Apparate consecutively until she lost her attackers, and did so, picturing as many London sites as she could. After the fourth Apparition, she found herself alone in the playground near the council estate she grew up in, feeling every limb on fire and sick like never before. Steadying herself, she Apparated one final time in front of number twelve.

Everything had happened very fast once she managed to clamber inside; Molly sprung to action and tended to her injuries, Tonks unceremoniously got her a sick bucket and performed a Vanishing Charm, Mad-Eye and Kingsley asked questions and pieced the facts together, and Remus praised her for her quick wits. It was decided that as a covert Ministry employee, living in a Muggle household, one whose address was now known, she was much too vulnerable, and Sirius convinced her to move to Grimmauld. Tonks, while reassuring, was only too happy to have an excuse to wrangle Remus in to a mission to accompany Jean and retrieve her belongings. After the end of the meeting, Sirius showed her the new room, and she took in the four-poster bed, the damask wallpaper, the curtains drawn revealing two balcony doors, and the strong smell of dust and mothballs.

“This is…very kind of you. Thank you.”

“Of course. Don’t forget, I owe you my life,” he replied with a genial wink. 

She looked around, trying to picture the sparse mismatched furniture she had collected over the years in this room, still feeling like her legs might give out at any moment.

"I think I need some air. Mind if I-?", she asked with a nod towards the balcony.

Sirius drew his wand and flicked it, opening the latch and pulling back the doors.

"All yours."

"Cheers," she managed, striding across the room to the balcony, patting her pockets for her cigarettes on the way. 

"Mind if I bum one?"

"Course not," she offered him the rumpled pack, taking out the small red lighter inside for herself.

"Ta. Haven't had one of these in ages."

She passed him the lighter, which he took with a smile.

"You do know you're a witch, yes?"

"Sorry, force of habit. I spend more time around Muggles than magic folk," she said with a shrug, peering over the chipped iron rail to the street below. After a few drags she felt somewhat returned to her skin. They smoked in companionable silence for a moment, the street quiet, as night had since set.   
  
Perhaps they would do this often, her and this strange, mysterious man with his long hair and his waistcoats. She tried to imagine what her days would be like. 

“We’ll need to do something about your mother’s painting. I can only deal with being called a Mudblood so many times before I’ll feel like setting fire to the place.”

“Be my guest, love,” he said on an exhale. “Fiendfyre might be the one thing we haven’t tried.”

Jean knew the man wasn’t happy to live in his family home, and wasn’t sentimental in the least about the screeching, hateful simile of his mother.

“What about paint thinner?” She snorted weakly at his confused look. “It’s a Muggle product. You’d be surprised how many artefacts are only protected against magic and not modern inventions.”

She hadn't yet seen him smile so wide. It lit up the furnace of his grey eyes and rubbed away all the lines on his gaunt face.

“Well, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

*

“I see you’ve acquainted yourself with the wine cellar.”

Jean looked up from her book and grinned at the wizard leaning against the doorway. “Bit of a break from the Firewhiskey, plus I thought I’d see if was still good. I’d hate to think that you’ve been holding on to boxes of two hundred-year old elf-made wine for generations for no reason.”

“You went for the Rooblemin? Good choice,” he said appreciatively, sitting comfortably in the large armchair opposite hers and looking every bit a master of his surroundings.

Sirius was in his late thirties and still had something of a roguish aristocrat to his looks despite the long years in prison, though she was a poor judge, as it had been a long time since she’d found a man compelling. On days like today, when they had no visitors, he’d dress simply in a crisp shirt and trousers. So far, her impression of him after that first conversation seemed solid: he was friendly and easy to be around, age difference notwithstanding, and she discovered he had a bit of a contrarian side that, in his world, had translated into more familiarity with Muggle culture than she expected from someone of his generation and background. He'd opened the doors to his home almost forcefully, eschewing any attachment to the property or its contents and encouraging her to do as she pleased, which was how she found herself feeling comfortable setting up her record collection in the drawing room and opening bottles of wine likely to cost more than her total savings. And while normally she may have been suspicious of such aggressive generosity from a man she barely knew, with Sirius, she got the sense that it was genuine, pet names and all, and that it had more to do with him than her, or whatever he may have thought he could extract from her.

She saw it in his interactions with other Order members, in how affectionate he was with Remus, in how this group of people, so cautious about everything, had taken her safety as their concern and entrusted her to him. They didn't usually cross paths until dinnertime, most nights, except for ocasional absences on his side he would dismiss the following day as not feeling like great company. She attributed this to what Molly had called "the sullens", in a hushed exchange that had been equal parts advice on living with someone carrying significant trauma, as it was on the proper conduct for an unmarried woman living with an unmarried man (the particulars of which still made her grimace). They had drinks together the few times that Tonks had popped round for dinner, properly reassured that Remus would not be in. Aside from that, he never joined her in the drawing room after dinner, where she read or listened to music until sleep came, which was a shame; she missed sharing long evenings in front of the television with the boys.

She noticed his grey eyes, which usually sparkled with mirth, looked downcast.

“What’s wrong?” 

“Just thinking about life,” he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “An old man’s musings.”

“You’re not old,” she said, closing her book. “Tell me.”

He acquiesced, gathering his thoughts for a moment. “It’s hard to know how to feel, now that we’re at the cusp of a war, when I lost so much the first time round,” he sighed. “I was prepared to die, and instead I lost everything in life that mattered to me. Well, most everything,” he corrected with a frown.

 _He means Remus and Harry_ , she thought, as she contemplated his loss, pieced from tidbits of references. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

“No, and you shouldn’t, love,” he said, forcing a reassuring smile. “The only way I figure anyone can go into this is hoping for the best on the other side. Bad things will happen regardless.”

“You know more about it than me.” Jean readjusted herself on the cushions, and felt around for her wand. She had tried to forget about the attack, and wasn’t yet prepared to think too seriously about what was coming.

“These always makes me feel better. _Accio_ ice lollies.”

A brightly coloured cardboard box whizzed in through the door and landed in her lap. She took out one wrapped rectangle and handed it to him, then took one out and unwrapped it for herself.

He chuckled, pulling the plastic apart curiously. “I thought I told you to stop buying groceries. That’s what the house-elf is for.”

“Yeah, but they don’t go in Asda, do they?” she said cheekily, licking one side of the chocolate lolly.

After the battle, it had been revealed Sirius’ old house-elf had injured the hippogriff on orders from his Death Eater cousin, to prevent him from being contacted by Harry, thus leading to the teenagers’ incursion into the Ministry. Now in control of the family vaults, Sirius had dismissed him to the Hogwarts kitchens and purchased a new elf. Jean had unwittingly managed to insult the much gentler creature when, on her first day living at Grimmauld, she went to the shops and bought her usual week’s worth of food, not knowing to expect that everything would be taken care of. She winced as she remembered how little Winnie had barricaded herself in the kitchen, while Jean pleaded with her and Sirius roared with laughter.

She watched as Sirius licked the ice cream tentatively. If the man was ever out of his comfort zone, he didn’t show it. She felt there was little she could do or say that would put him off, a quality she appreciated in her friends. 

“So, what’s the deal with Remus and Tonks?” she raised her brows suggestively. “If I’m going to be living with the boys, I might as well get some inside information.”

“You think,” he said in mock indignation, twisting to lick the melting lolly, “I’d betray my oldest friend? For _ice-cream_?”

“If if meant I’d let you in on the plan, yes,” she grinned. Predictably, his mischievous side was peaked.

“Go on.”

“She’s obviously crazy about him. Though I wonder if he’s entirely too sensible for her. But then again, sometimes that works.”

“Not hearing much of a plan so far.”

“I haven’t ironed out the details," she said with a dismissive wave of the hand. The reality was she hadn't yet put much though into the specifics. Her ex-girlfriend's interest in the cardigan-loving former professor was still, truthfully, bewildering to her, though its intensity was typical. What she knew was that the end of their brief romance made little sense, and had dampened Tonks' spirits to the extent that she felt it her responsibility to meddle. 

"But it’d really help if we had any clue as to how _he_ feels,” she drawled innocently. Sirius chuckled.

“Well, I wouldn’t be betraying his confidence by stating the obvious. You see how he looks at her. Or rather, how he _doesn’t_. I think he feels quite embarrassed by the whole thing.”

"He should, he was an arse to her." 

“I agree he’s being a knob. But you do get where he’s coming from?”

Jean shrugged. She could understand it in the abstract, but she still thought it was silly for Remus to keep himself apart from someone he liked because he thought himself undeserving.

“You wouldn’t know, but the man thinks surprisingly little of himself where it matters. He thinks being with him will ruin her life, and he's as stubborn as a hippogriff. I should know, I’ve been at it for years,” Sirius said, drawing his wand from his waistband and conjuring an empty glass, then reached for the bottle of wine on the table next to her. 

“Is it really just because of the werewolf thing?”

“Yes,” he said soberly, “and it’s not _just_ a thing. Most witches and wizards still don’t see werewolves as human. There’s all sorts of laws keeping them from finding work and having a normal life in the name of safety.”

“Right,” she nodded. Tonks had talked about some of the obstacles Remus had had to overcome, but Jean figured it was at least partly wrapped up in her feelings for the man, seeing him through rose-tinted lenses as a sort of brave underdog deserving of her adoration.

“I still think he’s taking things too seriously. Not that Tonks doesn’t want it to be serious, but it’s not like she’s asking him to marry her. She just wants to see where things might go.”

“Ah, but I don’t think old Moony’s up for that.”

“Because he doesn’t take chances?”

“Because he won’t be able _not_ to.”

Her eyes widened in realisation. “ _Ah_ …”.

“Don’t go telling him I said this,” he said with a wink, taking a sip from his glass.

“I won’t…if you help me get them back together,” she proposed. He didn’t reply, but smiled in response.

“Oh, come on. I’m likely to get the sack and we’re headed towards war. Indulge me in a little scheming.”

“Alright then,” he agreed, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “Finally, a mission where I can be of use. Matchmaking for old Moony.”

“Great. We'll have them shagging by Christmas.”  
  
"For his sake, I hope it's Halloween at the latest."  
  
They shared a laugh. She knew there was some resentment behind his prior statement, but was happy to see him in better spirits.

“Actually, while we're off the record, Remus might look like he's never had a dirty thought in his life, but he's as hot-blooded as the rest of us. More, even, depending on the time of the month.”

“I think that’s what she likes, this fantasy that he’s all serious and buttoned-up but at any moment might unleash the beast within.”

“Sounds about right,” he pondered with a smile, looking at his empty glass. Then, slyly, he asked, “What about you? Like them sensible?”

“Nah. I like them entirely _not_ sensible,” she replied, watching him curiously. She decided he might already have figured it out, and if not, he wouldn’t likely be the type to see anything wrong with it.

“It’s why me and her worked so well.”

“Ah,” he nodded, understanding spreading across his face. They smiled at each other. Another moment passed.

"I like this bloke," he said, gesturing to the record player.   
  
"Yeah? Not too...what was it you said. Artsy nonsense?"

"No, that other stuff was like my mum's painting with a full band behind her. This is pleasant."  
  
"There may be hope for you yet."   
  
"I'm sorry I like _actual_ music. You know, I used to own the same Frampton album you have. And the Sabbath."

"Makes sense," she replied airily. "They were my dad's." 

She giggled at his staggered expression. 

"Either I'm not old, or you owe your elders more respect, pet. You can't have both," he said with a hint of bruised petulance in his voice.

"You're not, I'm just winding you up." Thinking it best to change course, she lifted the cover of the book in her hands to show him. "I grabbed this from the library, hope that's okay. It's only slightly less terrible than I imagined."

Sirius squinted to read the title, and pulled a face. " _My Love,_ _the Wizard in Velvet Robes_? No idea how that got in there."

"Well, it's exactly what it sounds like. I just got curious 'cause I haven't read loads of magical literature."

"Probably because most of it's shite. That must've been my mum's, my father would have never allowed a bodice ripper in the library. She must have moved them there after he died," his face scrunched in a grimace. "Dunno how I feel about my mum getting her jollies off to something like that."  
  
"After meeting her painting, I'd say it's possible that woman never got her jollies off to much." 

He chuckled darkly. “Mind if I sit here for a bit with you?”

“Go ahead. Do you mind if I keep reading?"  
  
"Not at all", he replied, shifting so his legs hung off the armrest. He refilled his glass and took a long sip, looking off, seeming content not to speak. She turned her eyes back to the book, willing herself not to feel awkward, and they sat together for the remainder of the evening while the dissonant chords filled the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first piece of fanfiction in over ten years. I’ve just recently started dipping my toe back in the fandom as an escape from everything going on in the world. This is going to be a fun, hopefully sometimes meaningful, occasionally smutty piece focused on the cool grownups we didn’t see enough of: Sirius, Remus and Tonks, with an original character helping bring the group together. Feedback very welcome!


	2. Around

She woke to rumpled sheets at the foot of the bed and a room that felt like it was smouldering, as if the heavily embroidered curtains magnified the blazing sunlight. It was a weekday, but Jean had taken the day off to go to her appointment at St Mungo’s. She took her time getting up, twisting and yawning, before getting up to look for a pair of shorts in one of the boxes strewn around the room and pulling them up over her underwear. There had been none of the usual trepidation when asking her supervisor, knowing that she was going to be let go soon, anyway. The day after she had been sighted at the battle in the Death Chamber, she arrived at her desk and found a letter informing her of a formal inquiry into her violation of the department confidentiality code. She didn’t have the grounds for an appeal, and didn’t attempt one. It had now been two weeks; presumably, the Ministry had more to deal with than sorting out termination papers. She had continued going into work, musing infrequently about her options, telling herself she’d figure it out, she knew how to get by, _worse case scenario there’s always phone sex_ and she’d deal with it when she had to.

The kitchen at Grimmauld Place was different from any other she’d seen. It was in the basement of the house and had no windows; it hadn’t been made for one to sit with their coffee and read the paper in the glow of a new day, but rather for what the size of the table suggested had been an impossible number of servants to tend to themselves quickly in between tasks. Maybe because no one apart from Sirius had been brought up this way, most Order meetings and dinners had naturally defaulted to the kitchen, and despite the lack of natural light, it had become the more hospitable of the common areas: mismatched chairs pulled from other rooms, Molly's colourful tea towels hung over the oven, and an enormous potted succulent Hestia had gifted the headquarters that now sat over the sink. Jean filled the kettle, put it on and took a seat, absentmindedly picking up the novel that had been left on the table. There were soft steps on the hallway, and then Sirius came through the door, hair tousled and wearing plaid pyjama bottoms with no shirt.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled sleepily, scratching his face. “You’re not usually here at this time.”

“No work today, I’m going to St Mungo’s to get these off,” she motioned to her bandaged arm, leafing through the book. It was vintage sci-fi, not a title or author that she recognised from her small pool of references. She had the ghost of an impulse to ask about his plans, but remembered it would be insensitive.

"This one yours?"

Sirius glanced back from the stove. "Yeah. I used to like that stuff."

"Used to?"

"Can't focus much enough to read these days," he shrugged, getting two mugs from the cupboard. "Came in a box of stuff Remus kept from our flat, before I went in."

"I didn't know you two lived together," she replied as she skimmed a chapter, curious, but it didn't speak to her much; it was fast-paced, fantastical, and distinctly lacked female characters. Still, perhaps it was what someone with empty days ahead of them needed to escape for a bit. 

This gave her an idea. "Hey, why don’t you come with me?”

Sirius scoffed, his back turned to her as he poured tea for both. 

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, why not. You’ve been cooped up here too long and you’re a free man now. I’ll have to be disguised anyway, too, I could charm your face…”

He brought over the two mugs, taking his seat a few chairs away.

"S'ppose I could go as Padfoot."

"Don't they know what you look like? I think we'd draw more attention that way than as different people."

“Dumbledore would say it’s not wise. Mad-Eye and Molly would have a fit,” he said slowly. Then he grinned, a full smile that pulled the ends of his moustache up and reached his eyes, which she had noticed did not always happen. “Fuck yeah, let’s do it.”

“Great!” She was glad to have company, not having been anywhere else in wizarding London aside from the office by herself since the attack.

“This is twice now you've wrangled me into being your sidekick in mischief,” Sirius said, with an air of wonder as he took a sip, looking at her over the rim of the mug.

“You’re just accompanying a poor ailing woman to the hospital,” she retorted, sipping her tea. Was it a bad idea? They were two competent wizards who would be disguised, perhaps even disillusioned. There were bound to be Death Eater informants at the very least, but they would be quick and try to draw as little attention as possible. It was a workable plan.

“That’s a good idea. We can wrap you up in shawls, get you a cane. I can shave my beard and look like your grandson.”

“Glad you said that, ‘cause I’m crap at charms,” she admitted with a laugh.

A barn owl swooped in from the hallway and dropped a letter in front of her, flying off just as quickly. She saw the official Ministry seal and opened the envelope mechanically, knowing it was unavoidable.

_…contract has been terminated. I also regret to inform you, in light of the violation, that you will not be eligible as a candidate for any other Ministry positions in the future._

“Bad news?” Sirius asked, biting off a piece of toast.

“Got sacked,” she said, getting up. “Right, I’m gonna get dressed. Do you have any casual Muggle stuff? Hoodies, sweatshirts…?”

“You okay?” He asked with a frown.

“Yeah, I knew it was coming.” _I’ll figure it out, it’s fine._ “I’ll meet you down here in a half hour.”

*

It really _had_ been, she was pleased to think, a workable plan, and a fun way to start the day. She ended up borrowing one of Sirius’ mother’s matronly robes, several sizes too big, a matching hat with a dead vulture, pinned her hair under the hat and slapped some talcum powder on her peeking fringe. A walking cane and a pair of sunnies she transfigured into reading glasses completed the look, while her combat boots remained fully covered by the long trawling hem. In turn, she lent Sirius a large men’s sweatshirt and a sports cap, and with his hair tied back and a clean shaven face, he looked nothing like the deranged version of him on the wanted ads - rather, he looked like any regular guy she may have seen at a gig. She thought that compared to the more extreme, magical means of concealment - Polyjuice, charms - this was somewhat amateurish and definitely not up to Auror standards, but hoped the simplicity would make them all the less noticeable.

And after all, Sirius was having a good time, which distracted her from the weight in her stomach that said something was about to happen. He took a childish enjoyment in their costume deliberations, running from his room, to Jean’s, to his mother’s, shouting ideas, holding out ugly robe after ugly robe from the recesses of Walburga’s wardrobe and laughing at their reflection.

But as soon as they stepped on the pavement and she took his arm, she could sense his tension. He looked, quite plainly, like someone who hadn’t been outside in a while.

“Hey,” she said in a low voice, “it’s okay. We’ve got our wands. See anything funny, and we Apparate.”

“I know, love,” he nodded, forcing a small smile. “Just takes some getting used to.”

He relaxed the more they delved into the crowds in the tube station, letting her take the lead and looking curiously around at the people. Never had she been more thankful for the wizarding community’s perpetual lack of familiarity with ever-changing Muggle fashion. It would have been easy to notice potential threats in central London at rush hour, where everyone appeared dressed from the same smart monotone catalogue. It was hard to decide which was the more bizarre part of this incursion, being dressed like this on the tube, or being on watch for an attack from murderous wizard fascists. At least Sirius seemed to be enjoying the field trip. 

She could feel his tension return once they entered the hospice, now they were among people who might plausibly recognise him. The reception area was unexpectedly full for a weekday morning. The reason was made clear while they queued; everyone in front of them was convinced they showed symptoms of being hexed, cursed, or, bewilderingly, under Imperius. Some had brought the Ministry’s purple safety brochures to support their argument, and the receptionist dismissed them with the practiced, cold mechanics of a customer service worker encumbered with a volume of stupidity above their pay. She looked at Sirius, exchanging a quick conspirational glance.

He sat in the much quieter hallway while she went in. The appointment was quick, though it warranted an explanation of her seemingly prodigious ageing. “Can’t be too careful, nowadays,” her healer had agreed. They checked she’d continued taking her ten daily potions, removed the bandages, and performed a few quick diagnostic charms over her badly scarred left arm before letting them go.

She hadn’t expected it to still be this noticeable. Raised, slashed lines in mangled shapes covered most of her bicep from shoulder to elbow, and as she touched it tentatively, the weight in her stomach fell and grew cold. This was her skin and she would look like this forever. She could get hurt worse, no, it was likely she would. Her breath hitched, as she made to grab her things but faltered. She was jobless, and living in someone else’s house, under the charity of people who expected her to be able to fight. She couldn’t just go anywhere she wanted anymore, they knew who she was and where she lived. She had been indulging, she realised, enjoying the comforts of Grimmauld and trying to avoid this unbearably heavy truth: that this war had barely started and had already affected her life in quite significant ways.

She collected Sirius from his seat, where he was reading a _Witch Weekly_ that doubled as a shield.

“All better, nan?” he asked, all nervousness gone from his perennial good-natured smile. As simple as if he were the kitchen succulent, but instead of water, all he had needed was a small dose of being outside to perk up. _Like magic_ , she thought, an inside joke with her fellow Muggle-born friends. Friends she didn't know she might see again. 

She motioned for them to leave, and kept leading him away until they were back in the rush of the high street, edged away from the resolute passersby.

“I don’t wanna go home yet,” she confessed.

Sirius looked at her from under his cap, understanding in his eyes. “Wouldn’t mind a bit more fresh air before going back myself. Anywhere you fancy going?”

They both wanted to be outdoors but somewhere quiet, which is how they ended up Apparating back to Grimmauld so Sirius could collect his motorcycle from the basement. She changed out of the suffocating robes and met Sirius outside the front door, scanning the street quickly for anything strange. She hadn't been prepared for the level of athleticism required to get on the bike, nor the proximity required between her and Sirius.

"All good?" He asked, gently tightening her hands on his waist. 

"No helmet?" She shifted back in the seat, trying to find a position in which she weren't quite so literally enveloping the man with her thighs.

"Nah," he shook his head, turning to give her a wink, and before she could think, he hit the kickstarter, and they were buzzing through the roads of North London at an impossible speed that had to be magically enhanced. Once they hit the motorway and sped even faster, Jean thought if her fingers slipped from around Sirius' waist she would be propelled into the air and hit a car. 

"This has to be illegal!" She yelled in his ear.

"They can't see us!" He yelled back.

Her eyes widened in shock, but this raised more questions than could be answered in the present moment. She closed her eyes and hoped that Brighton was just around the corner. They passed the pier, tiny dots of people swarming the pebbled beach. She tapped him on the shoulder, asking him to stop so she could grab food from a chip shop. It took her a good few seconds to dismount and stand steadily, and by the time she got back, sustenance in hand, her legs still felt like jelly, making Sirius laugh. She cradled the newspaper wrap precariously with one hand while holding onto Sirius’ waist for dear life with the other. He drove until they were in a more secluded section of the coast cast off by white chalk cliffs.

"Alright there?" He asked as he joined her on the sidewalk, failing to hide an infuriating smirk.

"I'd throw up if I had anything in there. Jesus fucking Christ, how can you ride that thing?", she said, cradling the chips over her churning stomach.

"Suppose it's less, uh, affecting when you're driving. It does go at normal speed, I just figured this would be safer."

Jean glared at him pointedly.

"Come on, where's the risk-taker from this morning?" he asked jovially, turning to walk down to the beach. 

"Somewhere on the motorway between London and here, I'd guess," she muttered under her breath, following him down. Jean laid down in the sand, careful to retrieve a small Sneakoscope from her bag and place it within sight, while Sirius took off his shirt and rolled up the legs of his trousers to get in the water.

She stretched her limbs, glad she’d decided on a more weather-appropriate tank jersey dress before leaving. Her body was still tight from the ride. Closing her eyes, she took a breath and focused on the feeling of the hot, hard planes of sand on her back, the sun kissing her exposed skin, the salty breeze bringing relief to her scarred arm. She could hear the waves lapping on the shore, intermittent splashing that she guessed was Sirius, and seagulls squawking not too far away. She stayed like that for as long as she could before her thoughts returned to what she had felt in the consultation room.

She wanted to cry at the injustice of it all, that the hatred of a powerful few could stifle the happiness of so many others. Because even in the darkest times there would still be beauty - scenes like this, she thought, as she sat up and watched the tide - but most would not be so lucky as to get to enjoy them. They would be grieving, they would be tending to wounds, they would be going into hiding. Maybe this would be the last time she would see the ocean. _I don’t know if I can live like this._

A big black dog was paddling in the water a bit further from where Sirius had been standing. He barked happily, head bobbing along the shore. The dog dove, and a few seconds later Sirius’ human head reappeared. Jean could hear him laughing, a laughter that resembled the dog’s bark. Her heart warmed a little at his joy, his ability to delight in a moment of escape despite the fact that his freedom was still so restricted, his life so irreparably damaged.

She couldn’t run, even if she wanted to. She had a target on her back, and even if she could disappear into the Muggle world, she knew she wouldn’t be able to live with herself, knowing what Tonks and the others were putting on the line for all of them. Her fate, until a victory could even be imagined, had been sealed. She made a silent vow to enjoy, and help the others enjoy, as many small glimpses of peace and happiness like these as she could. Death was preferable to the brief moment of despair she had experienced stretching into forever, engulfing everything else.

She sat on the sand, resting her weight her good arm while she nibbled at the chips on her lap. She contemplated the flat blue horizon, and threw a handful of chips in the direction of three seagulls eyeing her ominously. A long moment went by, and then a thoroughly wet Sirius was walking up the shore. His tall shape cast a shadow over her as he bent down to grab the wand she was alarmed not to have noticed he had left behind. What happened to clothes when an Animagus transformed? She filed that question for another time. He laid down beside her, arms folded behind his head, taking in the sun.

Though they still didn’t know each other very well, they had become accustomed to sharing comfortable silences, a necessary milestone for any near-strangers living together that one might otherwise never experience with closer acquaintances. Jean knew friendships with men came easy to her, once it was made clear that any desire to impress her was misplaced. And in a way, she imagined they shared a certain loneliness: him, a real and physical loneliness barring him from both those few he still held dear, as well as the world at large; her, stuck for the foreseeable future in a world to which she had few genuine ties, personal and otherwise.

“Enjoying the day out?” _Someone get Witch Weekly on the line_ , she thought, amused, eyes swooping over the droplets on his still elegant torso, the grey lines of his rough tattoos, the dark hair clinging haphazardly to his face. His skin was a light olive he shared with Tonks, darker than her own pale complexion, and there was a looseness in his build that hinted at muscles that were since gone. 

“You forget how good it feels on your skin,” he replied, eyes still closed, then he turned to face her with an easy smile. “Thanks for getting me out of the house.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m glad for the company,” she said, moving the newspaper wrap to the space in between them in the sand.

"Bike-induced nausea and all?", he teased, reaching for a chip.

"No, the nausea was from whatever tinkering you did to it. What's the point of making it go so fast? Might as well make it Apparate."

"The _point_ is to make it go _fast_ ," he retorted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"And if you're disillusioning it, how can other cars know to avoid you? It's insane."

"An insanely impressive piece of magical machinery, you mean. Do you realise it's the only one like it in the world?", he scoffed. "It flies, you know."

"It...wow. Okay. That is impressive," she admitted. "Still not a fan, though. Love the concept, hated the experience."

"I'll change your mind. I'll take you out flying one of these days."

"Is that where you go after dinner?"

"Sometimes," he said simply, turning to watch the tide. She took the hint and didn't press.

“Why hadn’t you been out yet? Outside, I mean. I figured you’d be aching to sneak off as soon as you could.”

“I’m not sure myself, to tell you the truth. I imagine I was scared,” he said in a detachedly surprised way, as if speaking about someone else. He continued, raising himself up on his elbows. “I had all their warnings yammered into me. I didn’t care, I’d still risk it any chance I got. I went as Padfoot to King’s Cross last summer, to see Harry off. But after the battle…", he trailed off, eyes fixed on the horizon. "He’s always been in danger. But this was the first time I _saw_ him in danger, and all because he thought he was protecting me. I suppose it kind of…spooked me.”

That she could understand.

“I’d have got over it eventually, now that I’m at least not being chased by Dementors, but you helped me off the ledge, so, thank you,” he said, turning on his side so he faced her again, a gentleness in his grey eyes. 

“I might cash in the same favour at some point.”

“How come?”

“It’s all kind of hitting me.” Her hand trawled down the scars on her left arm. “I’m feeling a tad spooked myself.”

“We’re gonna be okay,” he said, reassuringly. “We have to be prepared, but we’re gonna be okay. I didn’t think I’d last a second in Azkaban, and I managed twelve years with a good chunk of my sanity intact. You never know how strong you are until you’re tested.”

She nodded, wrapping her arms around her knees. The idea of testing herself by surviving Azakaban was not reassuring.

“So long as I’ve got my fags, nice company,” a short nod in her direction, “and as long as Dumbledore’s around, I’m not too worried.”

“ _Your_ fags? I was under the impression you’re always bumming mine.”

“Only because I’m a wanted ex-con who can’t leave the safety of his home."

“You’re not wanted anymore!”

“Not technically, no, but I’m still liable to run into an angry mob.”

“Yeah, the off-licence round the block’s a big angry mob hotspot.”

He chuckled, deep in his chest, and she joined, feeling lighter. From her backpack, she drew two cigarettes from the pack, placed one between her lips and one on the sand next to him. She then tapped the tip of hers lightly with a finger, and a tiny amber flame appeared, her only successful bit of wandless, non-verbal magic.

“Nice trick,” he said, cupping his hands around the cigarette hanging from his lips, trying to replicate the effect.

“It’s easier to control, less risk of burning your face off with a wand. Why can’t you get Winnie to add them to the shopping?”

“Wizard suppliers won’t stock Muggle stuff." 

Jean couldn’t help but snort derisively. _It’s just food, why does everything have to be different…_

“Isn’t there an old-school wizard version? Loose leaf mixed with dragon whatsits or something?”

“My dad and uncle used to mix something with their opium. Never bothered to ask,” he said, flicking ash on the sand.

"Christ, opium. That's so...Victorian."

He gave her a confused look. 

"I mean, it sounds like something from a different time. From centuries ago, at least in the Muggle world."

"Yeah, well. That's Pureblood families for you. Pride themselves on holding on to things that should've stayed in the past." There was the edge to his voice that came out whenever the topic of his background came up.

"Not you, though. Sci-fi books, motorbikes..."

"I was curious about what else was there. And I was lucky enough to grow up in London, and to make friends with Muggle-borns at school. Mind you, I was a right idiot about a lot of things. Probably still am," he admitted with a chuckle.

"You're better than most. Definitely better than Molly and Arthur, bless them. Even Tonks drives me mad with the things she says sometimes, and her dad's Muggle-born."

"That's why we need people like you, bridging the worlds." 

He meant it conversationally, and she knew he didn't fully grasp the implications. She had very frequently heard similar sentiments throughout her life since entering school, and in those moments, it was as if the other party took on the mantle of representative for the wizarding world at large, bestowing honours upon her, the eternal outsider.  
  
Perhaps reacting to something in her expression, he continued, "I know it can't be easy. I know Lily - Harry's mum, she was Muggle-born too - was always having to explain things to us. And she got upset when there were things she didn't know that she felt she should."

"Yeah, that sounds about right," she nodded. "I had people who filled me in on a lot of stuff, but it still felt like playing catch-up a lot of the time."

"You've made it here. And you're fighting for a better world, which is more than most people, no matter their blood status, can say for themselves."

"Thanks," she replied, a little embarrassed at the force of the statement. 

The sun was beaming down so strongly it made the sea look almost silver. Sirius’ trousers looked about dry. She crushed the butt of her cigarette in the sand and flexed her heels in the soft heat. She threw the last chips over to the seagulls and watched them fight, pecking at the sand and each other.

“Any of your parents smokers?” 

“Yeah, both of them.”

“Nice people?”

She took a deep breath, pondering. _Where to begin?_ “Not really”.

He raised a brow inquisitively.

“Long story, definitely not for today.”

“Look forward to it,” Sirius smashed the butt of his cigarette on the sand. “I reckon it’s time we got going, if we don’t want to toast.”

“Yeah.” She tossed her belongings back in her bag, then stood up with her wand and pointed it at her back in a scraping motion to get rid of the sand. He pulled the bottom of his discarded sweatshirt over his head and got up, and they walked back to the road.  
  
“I can give you a tour of the corner shop before we head home. You know, help you get past your fears,” she said as they approached the motorcycle.

“Or, you can keep letting me have yours.” 

“Sirius, you’re filthy rich. I just lot my _job_.”

“Think of it as earning your keep.”

She turned around to glare at him. 

“I’m incentivising you to get back into the workforce.”

“Fucking toff…!” 

“Oi!”

He caught up with her, grinning at her with that now familiar, insolent smirk. She leaned against the bike with her arms crossed, waiting.

“How about this. I won’t ask for one again, but I'll happily take it if it's being offered...," he looked at her from under his lashes, hands in his pockets, long hair still matted with sand. “…if and when you want me around?”

Jean held his gaze with a defiant pout. “That’s still gonna be a lot of fags.”

“Good,” he smirked.

She rolled her eyes but couldn't hold back a smile. 

"Right, get this deathtrap roaring so we can go home," she said, stepping away.

"As you wish," he said with a mock tip of the hat, as he got on and hit the kickstart. 

It didn't feel as awkward this time, slotting herself and her arms around her new friend. She suspected he was driving slower, but they were still able to weave through traffic in ways she would have thought impossibly narrow, and the sun was just starting to go down by the time they got back to Islington.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and please leave a comment if you'd like!


	3. Wonder

Sirius was elated that Harry was coming to stay at Grimmauld for the remainder of the summer. He would prefer it, of course, if he never returned to his hated aunt and uncle's again. Though he tried not to think about it too much, he still had reservations about Dumbledore’s design. Couldn’t Harry be kept just as safe in this house, laden as it was with every protective and concealment charm his family's name could buy, on top of the Fidelius? Anyone that knew the boy knew Privet Drive was the last place Harry considered home. And yet the headmaster was adamant they should make the most use out of the bond of blood charm he had cast on the tragic night that left him an orphan. The thought never failed to make a familiar trickle of guilt traverse him, but he didn’t know enough to counter the old man's reasoning, and so he settled for promising himself he would show the boy a good time while he was there, certainly a better time than he had the previous summer.

His godson arrived late one evening, escorted by the headmaster. Sirius and Jean were having dinner in the kitchen when they heard the thump of the silver knocker on the front door. He got up immediately, still used to the need to run and quiet his mother’s now defaced painting, from which only a sort of quiet whirring could be heard. 

“Harry!” He enveloped the boy in a warm hug. “I thought we wouldn’t be seeing you until morning. Where’s your stuff?”

“I had Harry’s things sent here earlier. Unless I’ve made a mistake, and your trunk and owl have been received by what I'm sure must be a very befuddled neighbour,” the older wizard’s eyes twinkled in the dim light of the hallway.

“Slip of the old age, or up to no good, headmaster?”

“It’s alright, I saw Winnie taking it upstairs,” said Jean, approaching them from the end of the hallway. “Hello, headmaster. Hi, Harry.”

“Good evening, Miss Caldwell. I take it Winnie is Kreacher’s successor, Sirius?”

“Yes. Lovely elf, happy to say she doesn’t hold a candle to that accursed thing."

“Good riddance,” said Harry, and they all smiled at him.

“Why don’t you go in the kitchen, there’s still food. Dumbledore, will you stay?”

“I’m afraid I have urgent business with the minister. Which reminds me, I need a quick word with you. Harry-“, the headmaster looked at him over his half-moon spectacles, “I shall see you at Hogwarts. Take care.”

Harry took his cue to leave the adults.

“I have something to ask of you too, headmaster, but I can come back if you need…?” Jean asked.

“You can stay, Miss Caldwell,” Dumbledore replied, kindly. They huddled around the stairwell, waiting for Harry’s footsteps to quiet.

“It appears that Rufus will not back down from wanting to meet with you personally.”

“He does, does he,” Sirius scoffed, “I don’t see how we can make that happen, if he's thinking of meeting him in the Ministry?”

“I believe he is intent on paying a visit to the Burrow, using Percy Weasley as a pretence.”

“Unbelievable.”

“I wish it were. If you did want to accept, we could organise it so you would be there when he visits.”

“That depends,” he said, crossing his arms. “Am I any closer to receiving a pardon?”

Dumbledore frowned. “That would be the stated purpose, but I suspect it’s likely he will ask something of you in return.”

“What could they want from you?” Jean asked, brow worried.

“My guess is publicity.”

“That would be mine too. It’s entirely up to you, of course,” the headmaster said carefully, “but I would ask you to consider the impact of any such visibility on our operations. There’s also Harry to consider. He wants to meet with him as well.”

“I’ll stall him then,” Sirius said decisively. “I’ll meet with him and see if that gets his nose off Harry’s trail.”

“Very well. I shall let you know when.”

Dumbledore turned his attention to Jean.

“You had a question for me, Miss Caldwell?”

“Yeah. It’s actually for both of us, really,” she said sheepishly, nodding at Sirius, “I’m, uh, out of a job.”

“Yes, I imagined that to be the case. I’m very sorry.”  
  
“It’s alright,” she said with a wave of the hand, though Sirius suspected her quick dismissal whenever it came up meant it upset her more than she let on.

“But it does mean I have a lot of free time now. I was wondering how I can be more useful to the Order, and I’m sure this goes for Sirius too?” She turned an inquisitive look to him, to which he nodded vigorously.

“Absolutely. I’m dying for a mission here.”

“I know we can’t just go anywhere, but we can spy, we can track. Plus, I can do research."

“Yes,” Dumbledore said thoughtfully. “I will think about where your efforts are best spent. I know Sirius here would always prefer to be placed ‘on the field’, so to speak,” he said with a smile.

“I’d be happy to walk Nifflers, Dumbledore,” Sirius replied with a sigh. “Anything, I don’t mind.”

“And I’m certain an in-depth investigation of the Black family library could prove most useful.”

“I’m your girl,” Jean said with a smile.

“I’ll be in touch with you both shortly. In the meantime, stay safe.”

He bowed his head and turned to the door, long robes gliding over the floor. They heard the door close and the “pop” of a Disapparition.

“That wasn’t so hard,” Jean said, as they walked back to the kitchen.

Sirius hummed in agreement. He wasn’t going to hold out hope for a good brawl with a Death Eater any time soon, but anything would ease the hard pit of dread he had been carrying inside. Sometimes he wondered how much longer he could hold on, being this useless. Sometimes he thought someone who loathed him very much must have seen into his soul and made his worst nightmares come true; cornered inside these walls to which he swore never to return, most of his chosen family dead, nightmares laden with cold, hunger and Dementors, aching so much to do, to _fight_ , yet so incapable.

A squeeze to his shoulder snapped him out of his reverie. Jean was giving him a small smile, searching his eyes with a slight frown.

“He’ll give us something to do.”

His gaze met the reassurance in her hazel eyes. He drew a deep breath, releasing the tension in his throat, and together they walked into the kitchen where his godson was waiting.

*

“Prophecies can be a load of hogwash,” he told him the next day. “Personally, I don’t get why Dumbledore’s so invested in it. My aunt Lucretia had one made about her that said her offspring would restore the glory of the family or some nonsense, and she died without any children. Don’t worry about it any more than you have to.”

In the back of his mind, however, his godson’s revelations about the full extent of the prophecy gave shape to a fear that had lain dormant for a while: that the boy didn’t just happen to be the unfortunate target of Voldemort’s homicidal tendencies, but rather that he was fated to be a key player in the struggle to come. An event that he, for one, was keen to disrupt as much as possible. He trusted Dumbledore, but he knew part of the trust he and the others put into the man entailed the assumption that he alone was to make the hard decisions. Sirius, however, felt little conflict in putting Harry's life above the fate of the wizarding world, if it came to that. He owed James and Lily that much.

A sample of this came about with Rufus’ foretold arranged visit to the Burrow. Sirius cringed as Molly wrung tears over Percy’s newfound filial affection, despite Dumbledore's prompt, and agreed to a walk outside with the minister.

“Terrible thing, what happened to you, Black.”

He stayed silent, waiting to get a measure of the former Auror.

“You’ve been, of course, cleared of all charges.”

“And when’s that being made public?”

“That’s…,” he wavered, perhaps not expecting Sirius to cut to the point so quickly.

“…that’s in the works, of course. Wrongs need to be righted. But I want you to know I’m playing a different game than Fudge. We need strong men like you on our side.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, it would help bring a sense of unity if the public could see you rehabilitated. Show that a man can be put through hell and come out on top. A beacon of light in these times, you see.”

“You know as well as me that I’m lucky to be able to string a sentence together.” He stopped in his tracks, forcing the minister to face him. They could have been the only two people in the fields of Ottery St Catchpole.

“It’s remarkable,” said Rufus gruffly.

“Spare me. What do you want? Photo ops, interviews?”

“That would be a start,” he admitted. “There’s layers to this, aren’t there, Black? The only man to have ever escaped Azkaban - by his own doing, of course - turns out not to be a criminal or a murderer, but a man wrongfully imprisoned in the course of fighting You-Know-Who. And on top of that, he happens to be the heir to one of wizarding Britain’s oldest Pureblood families, _and_ related to a handful of high-profile Death Eaters.” 

“Yeah, it’s a great story,” Sirius said derisively. That that was the summary of his life made him feel sick.

“ _And_ godfather to the Chosen One,” Rufus continued. “I don’t think you understand how much of an asset you are.”

“I’m not letting you near Harry.”

Rufus gaped, startled.

“I don’t know what you think…”

“I know enough to know you people have no idea what you’re doing,” he spat, anger burbling to the surface. “You were there when I went in with no trial and you’ll be pulling the same stunts soon enough. I haven’t forgotten.”

“I see,” Rufus looked into the distance, brow scrunched as if in thought.

“It’s a shame, Black. One of the richest men in the country, and you can’t take a walk down Diagon Alley.”

“I hear it isn’t much to look at these days,” Sirius retorted. “I think we’re done here.”

The new minister glared, but walked back to the house with him in silence. He willed his resentment to quiet down before returning to his seat next to Harry with a wink, an unspoken promise to fill him in later. Rufus and Percy bade their goodbyes abruptly to all including a sorrowful Molly, while Sirius stirred the cold remnants of his tea and pictured the Diagon Alley of his memories. 

He worked through some of his feelings during the afternoon spent playing two-by-two Quidditch, his first game in over fifteen years. Him and Harry against Ginny and Ron, one hand on the handle and one on the smooth leather of a quaffle, swooping and diving against the bright blue sky. He was dizzy on Harry's laughter, and for the first time since he could remember, he didn't feel his chest crack when he noticed him pushing his glasses up with his thumb, just like James used to do. 

It was nighttime when the two Apparated back to Grimmauld. He sent the yawning boy up to his room with a one-armed hug, feeling warm at their easy domesticity, stolen but still there.  
  
"How did it go with the minister?" 

He peered into the drawing room. Jean was stretched across the couch, a heavy-bound dusty tome in her lap, cigarette hanging loosely from between her lips. She wore an oversized, ratty t-shirt with a loud logo that came down to her thighs, and her long brown hair was braided into two plaits. If ever there had been a more enticing sight in the history of this depressing room, he didn't know it. He joined her, taking the opposing armchair as usual. 

"Alright. As well as could be expected, anyway."

"So that's it? You're getting a pardon?"

She was casually using one of the silver goblets with the family crest as an ashtray, which made him smile.

"Oh, sorry. I couldn't find anything else-"

"Please, you know that could all go in the bin for all I care. And no, that's not in the cards. It was never really in the cards."

"What? But wasn't that the point?", she frowned, sitting up.

He shook his head. "Only if I was willing to become the Ministry's mascot. It's not a good idea for the Order, plus they're wanting to do the same with Harry."

"Well, Harry can say no when the time comes. I don't see why..."

"He's my responsibility."

"I know that, but I think Dumbledore's got it wrong. You're an asset, we need you free. Surely this would be a good thing, and it's not like anyone trusts the Prophet anymore, anyway."

 _Asset_ , again. He heaved a sigh of frustration. He wanted to put this behind him, but she was stoking the small flame of questions he was trying very hard not to think about. 

"Sorry-"

"No, don't apologise. It's nice you think of me that way," he said, earnestly. "Not everyone agrees, obviously. But we need to be a unit. There's more important things to focus on."

She raised her hands in surrender, letting her wry smile show she didn't agree.

"But I'm touched."

She scoffed, getting a second wind.

"You're absolutely an asset. You're a much better wizard than me! You're a good duellist, I've seen you do loads of non-verbal magic, and the strength of mind alone to have survived what you did..."

"Go on. Haven't had my ego stroked in a while," he said, shifting pleasurably in his seat.

"I just don't think we're going about this the right way. We're not using you properly...", he cocked a brow, "...or Remus, either, really."

"What would you have us do instead?", he asked, drawing his wand. "Ogden's?"

"Cheers."

A lazy flick of the wand, and two whiskey glasses and the amber bottle came floating gently through the air. Another flick, and the bottle top came off and a precise finger of the liquid was poured into each glass.

"Show off," she teased, taking the glass from him. For a split second, when their fingers touched, he felt something warm inside him swoop, like being back on the broom, flying with Harry again.

"So, if it was up to me. We have people on top of the bad guys. So we should be paying more attention to the good guys they'll be trying to control or disappear. They're going to aim to infiltrate the ministry, right? We should have people there, especially now that Amelia Jones' dead. Either Polyjuice and impersonate, or keep tabs on key figures. Watch for changes in the Wizengamot. That sort of thing."

"She likes a good scheme," he said, impressed.

"I've also never done this before, so what do I know. It's just been on my mind," she shrugged, ruffling her fringe.

"You should speak up more in meetings."

"Nah. I'm going to focus on cataloguing the library until Dumbledore gets back to us."

He sipped his whiskey, rolling the liquid around his tongue, and peered at the old book in her hands.

" _Treatise on Blood Magic._ Tell me next time you decide to get something like that off the shelf, or at least put on some gloves, for my peace of mind."   
  
"The books are cursed?"

"Some will be. Against the, uh, _impure_ ," he grimaced.

"Ah, right," she replied gingerly, observing the book as if looking for visible signs of a latent curse. "You know, that stuff's all hack. Curses targeting Muggle-borns."

"No, I've seen it," Sirius said with a frown. A horrible, faraway memory: this same room, filled with guests in expensive dress robes; a thud, a scream, and his father's favourite Potioneer's hands were on fire. And after it was all over, Walburga's shrill, spiteful laugh. 

"I mean, the curses work, it's just that there's no way to actually detect magical ancestry. There's no way, magically or scientifically, at least not right now, to tell the basic physiological make-up of a Pureblood apart from a half-blood or a Muggle-born, not really. Your body's either magical or it isn't."

He listened, captivated. 

"What that sort of magic does is pick up on traces of magic that only Purebloods would have been exposed to from an early age. Naming rituals, protective blood spells, that sort of thing."  
  
"I had no idea," he breathed.   
  
"Now you know," Jean said airily, downing her whiskey. He noticed the way she curled her tongue around the liquid before swallowing.  
  
"You sell yourself short," he said, finally. "Do you realise how many people believe in that stuff? Entire generations, manors all over the country stocked with powder boxes and letter openers they think can tell the _wrong kind_ apart. And here you tear it down with two sentences."

"Aw, well. It's just knowing where to look."   
  
"You're really a swot," he teased. Her head _was_ always in a book, it was just her style and demeanour that lent themselves to a different impression. That of someone assured, a little daring, perhaps unbothered to the point of lacking a strong commitment. But then, she was so young, and coming into this war under a less radicalising time than he had. He realised how little he still knew about her. 

"I forget you were an Unspeakable."

"Youngest in the Ministry, but who's counting," she joked.

"Really? Was it right after Hogwarts?"

"Yeah. They take loads of interns, but everyone uses it as a way in to other departments. The research transfers over well to admin jobs, I guess. I liked it though, and I didn't mind the secrecy thing, so I ended up being the youngest person to ever get sworn in."

"Very impressive," he said sincerely, raising his glass to her. There was pride in her sheepish smile, a naked, beaming thing which was something new he was intrigued to see. 

"I'm sorry you lost the job," he followed, and immediately, the proud smile was replaced by something contrived.

"It's alright."

"No, it's not. You keep saying that, and I know it's what you have to tell yourself - and it _will_ be alright, you'll find something else after - but it's not alright that you had to sacrifice it for this shit war."

She didn't say anything for a moment, watching him, considering. Then she gave a tiny shrug, and smiled at the empty glass in her hand.

"Thanks."

"Anytime. And just because it's not in a professional capacity, doesn't mean you can't still be a swot." 

"Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain. Or rather, a lack of one." 

He watched the light dance in his empty glass.  
  
"We can agree that we're both assets then. Even if that's not the general consensus," he said, and they shared a smile that felt pleasingly clandestine. 

*

Soon enough, the house settled into a routine similar to that of the previous summer, more people hovering around than he thought he could ever get used to again, but with them, also, more distractions from his drearier thoughts. Molly, Arthur, Ron, Ginny and Hermione arrived a few days after Rufus’ visit. The kids could spend the rest of the summer together, popping over to the Burrow via Side-Along when the weather was too good not to play Quidditch, while the elder Weasleys could be on hand for Order business. Of late, this had devolved into streamlining reports to and from Dumbledore, as general meetings dwindled. He still butted heads with Molly, who insisted on taking over household duties despite his attempts at convincing her to allow Winnie to do her job. The elf had made tremendous strides in making the house less inhospitable; gone were the layers of dust and the hums of various hidden pests. But he had to acquiesce to Molly and her skill for coordinating teams to continue on the mission to clear space and get rid of clutter, something he had actively, if selfishly, refused to take on himself. He’d happily have it all thrown out, despite occasional protests about the historical value of some relic or other; the library was left untouched at Jean’s request.

Ron and Hermione had seen Jean during the battle, but had not yet met her properly, as she had only joined the Order after the summer of the year before. Like Harry, they addressed her with a similar reverence as they did Tonks, as an adult closer to their age who was, by definition, “cool”. Hermione, in particular, sought her out often, to discuss everything from theory of magic to her experiences as a grown-up Muggle-born witch out in the world. Watching them, Sirius’ darker thoughts went to Lily, and how he wished she could have been part of this newfound shared vocabulary.

Other Order members would appear for dinner: Remus and Tonks on alternate days, as if by agreement, Mad-Eye, Kingsley, and the Weasley twins. The duo had wasted no time reminding Sirius of the thornier particulars of his living situation. They stopped by early one weekend for Molly's full English, and Jean walked in as he was chatting with them about the shop, swapping school-time prank stories with marketable potential. She accepted a plate from Molly and settled at the opposite end of the table, absent-mindedly sopping up egg yolk with her toast while reading from a book, seemingly unaware of Molly's reproachful eyes on her large men's t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and tatted shorts.

“And who is that?” Fred asked with a practiced and, thankfully, discreet low whistle. Sirius braced himself.

“Jean. She’s in the Order, and she lives here now.”

“She lives _here_ , mate? With you?” George asked.

“She was attacked at her doorstep, where she lived with Muggles. Seemed sensible at the time,” he said carefully.

“Sure it did,” Fred said with a smirk.

“Wonder if she’d move in with us instead, seen as how we, too, worry about the wellbeing of _all_ members of the Order.”

“‘specially when they look like that.”

“Show some respect, lads,” he heard himself say.

“Something you’re not telling us, Sirius?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” he said dismissively, “we happen to live under the same roof, is all.”

“How’s that working out, then? Racking up that water bill?”

“I don’t like what you’re suggesting.” He felt his jaw tighten.

“Easy, mate. Just sayin’, they don’t make them like that at Hogwarts.”

As the twins switched to evaluating the kinds of girls that were or weren’t 'like that' at Hogwarts, Sirius lost himself in his thoughts. He was annoyed and he didn't know why. He was perfectly aware that she was the kind of woman that draws attention - short and curvy, with a large chest often accentuated rather than obscured; a face that, if not breathtaking, tended to wear a playful smile; and a style decidedly unusual amongst wizards. But having it spelled out for him, that everyone could see what he saw, made him feel a twinge of shame, not for any reason he could understand. He certainly hadn't done anything any other man would be ashamed of, untoward or otherwise. Fifteen years ago, it would have almost certainly been a different story, but fifteen years ago, he could not have been paid to step foot or paw into this house, would not have been in a position to offer lodging to a near stranger, nor would he have craved company so badly it only made sense to do so. He would have done the same for any other comrade in the same circumstances, with the possible exception of Mundungus, and the definite exception of Snape. And they knew this; after all, he'd had them over last Christmas, when Arthur had been attacked.  
  
Fifteen years ago, he would have laughed easily at the suggestion that he had an ulterior motive in letting an attractive witch kip in his and Remus' couch, and made some joke about how he'd be only too happy to offer more of his "services" if desired, knowing with the bland certainty of someone who has never had a certain truth about themselves challenged that he could, and he would, and so did the accuser, and so did the witch, and so did sweet Remus. Yet now, the same suggestion had him parsing through the evidence of how others saw him, for a version of Sirius that felt comfortable.

*

One night, after discussing the logistics of returning the teenagers to Hogwarts, Sirius, Remus and Molly sat around the kitchen table when they heard a loud clanking noise from the hallway, followed by whimpering.

“Who’s there?” Molly asked, startled, and the voices quieted.

“…no one?”, Tonks said tentatively.

Tonks and Jean were in the hallway, where Tonks had knocked over the troll leg umbrella stand again and stood awkwardly, rubbing her knee.

“I thought you'd left, dear?”

“I was going to, yeah.” She motioned over to Jean sheepishly. “Change of plans.”

These included, he guessed, seeing and being seen. His cousin had changed from her Auror robes to a black t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and what appeared to be leather trousers; her short hair, which recently had become mousy and lank, was back to her favoured pink, although not quite as vibrant. Jean looked the more feminine counterpart, and as Sirius looked at her more closely, he felt a tug in his stomach. She had on a very low cut black dress, with thin straps and a slit up the thigh. The dress clung to her breasts, hips and the swell of her tummy, which she didn’t try to hide and made the little witch, in his eyes, all the more magnetic. Coupled with her usual heavy boots, and her long hair pined to one side, exposing the shaved underside, she was a study in contrast, sweet and dangerous at once. 

No, _not_ sweet, he thought, raking his eyes up the dress again. _Merlin bless Muggle fashion_.

“Plans? You’re not going out, girls, are you?” Molly started, worried.

“Don’t worry Molly, we’ll be in Muggle London, nowhere any Death Eaters would know about,” Jean replied smoothly, grabbing their coats from the hanger and handing Tonks hers.

“Plus I’ll change how I look, and Jean here has a Sneakoscope on her,” Tonks added, pulling on the worn denim jacket.

“But it’s not safe!”

“We can take care of ourselves,” Jean said sternly.

“You should at least take one of the men with you.”

“I thought none of us were supposed to be roaming around,” he interjected, despite himself, “but it’s okay if we’re playing knight in shining armour?”

She turned to him, grinning. “Wanna come, Sirius?”

As much as he hated being inside, he couldn’t imagine a more uncomfortable evening than chaperoning the two of them on a night out, Tonks likely wanting to vent about Remus or drown her sorrows, Jean looking like _that_ , and him on lookout for Death Eaters for the three of them.

He shook his head, feeling every bit of his age in his bones. “Have fun, you two.”

“Oh, I really wish you wouldn’t go,” Molly insisted, “it’s just not safe. Dumbledore would be against it.”

“We’re just going to unwind a little bit,” Jean insisted, “ _you know_ , cheer up. _Some_ of us could use a bit of a distraction.” She gave Molly a meaningful look with a slight tilt of the head towards Tonks, who looked on uncomfortably. Next to him, Remus shifted on his feet.

“Oh, alright then.”

“Mind if we join?” One of the twins asked from the stairs.

“Not you two!”, scolded Molly, hurrying to the landing where the younger crowd had congregated.

After they left, the teenagers joined them back in the kitchen.

“She looks like that _and_ she one-ups mum.”

“I think I’m in love.”

“She’s too much woman for any of you,” Ginny scoffed.

“Can’t argue with that,” said Sirius, nursing his Butterbeer. He found that he was intent on preserving the memory of what she had looked like tonight, wondering morosely if this made him a disgusting old man.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone catch the meaning of Sirius' aunt's prophecy?


	4. Better Parts

“Guess we should make good on our promise,” said Tonks, scrunching her face in concentration. Within a few blinks of an eye, her short pink hair grew into a jaw-length curtain of dark brown waves, her round features became chiselled, her chest and hips melted into flat bulk, and her leather trousers tightened around a heavier build.

“Oh, hello,” Jean grinned up at the person suddenly a couple inches taller than they had just been. “Haven’t seen _him_ in a while.”

From her purse, she pulled out a small Sneakoscope, then retrieved her wand from her jacket sleeve and transfigured it into a plain black electronic wristwatch.

“You should sell that, you know. Those things have never been easy to carry around,” said Tonks, her voice a couple octaves lower, coming down the front door steps and past the wards protecting the house.

“Maybe I’ll mention it to the twins,” Jean followed, fumbling with the watch as they walked across the dimly lit square. Tonks snickered in response.

“I’m sure they’d love the excuse to chat you up.”

“Please.” She playfully elbowed her friend then hooked her arm around hers. It was a perfect summer night, and her mission to cheer her up was going well. They hadn’t had a proper night outtogether since before the battle, and it was anyone’s guess when they would have the opportunity again.

“Right, where do you reckon, Soho? We can walk from here, it’s nice out," she asked as they came to the busy entrance to Angel tube station.

“Not that place with the pink walls and the pole dancing,” Tonks asked with a grimace. “Too much going on.”

“Couldn’t get in if we wanted to, with you looking like that,” Jean said breezily. “Tonight’s your night. We do what _you_ wanna do.”

“Quiet bar, then?”

“Sure,” she held out her arm for her companion to take, and they strode into the night.

*

They found a quaint café accommodating an older gay crowd, the best they would find, Jean thought, for what she knew could be a long and potentially teary conversation involving werewolves and magic and witches. She brought over two pints of beer to their small corner table, where Tonks was fighting the too large chair cushion into a stable position.

“I swear, Auror Tonks, it were hexing my kneazle, it were!”, she joked, channeling her best impression of her mother as she placed the glasses on the plastic table, earning a chuckle from her companion.

“It’s good to see you not moping,” Jean continued, meaningfully, beckoning Tonks to look at her. “I’ve been worried about you, you know.”

“I know.” She took a pull on her beer, recovering the same downcast expression that, of late, had made its home in the excitable face Jean knew so well.

“I hate seeing you like this over some guy.”

“Don’t say that,” she said softly. “I know this doesn’t make any sense. I can’t explain it. There’s just something about him that feels right.”

Jean felt a small tug in her heart. They had been broken up for two years, but Tonks was still the only person she had been in love with, and her only serious relationship to date. And while she treasured their friendship, their continued presence in each other’s lives made it difficult for her not to wonder what could have been if they’d worked things out. After all, they broke up for what she saw as practical reasons, of marginal relevance to feelings and love and want. There had been no grand betrayal, no sudden disappointment, no falling out of love, and if asked now, Jean would freely admit (perhaps not to Tonks herself) that she did not feel qualitatively different about her ex-girlfriend than she did when they were together.

Back then, her girlfriend had been completing her Auror training, growing into herself, becoming confident in a job she loved and eager to make important, lasting decisions. Their weekends split between Jean’s attic room and Tonks’ flat in Whitechapel were starting to seem juvenile for someone about to embark on a grown-up, well-paid career. Whereas ever-searching Jean struggled to find her footing. Unsettled by the seemingly sudden end of a seven-year programme of cultural assimilation, unimpressed by what was meant to be wizarding Britain’s top magical research centre despite, or perhaps because of, her quick ascent (she wouldn’t forget a senior colleague who studied jello for most of his career). And worst of all, in her unwillingness to tamper with the only unproblematic variable in her life, she refused to accept Tonks’ argument that it is natural and conventional for a four-year relationship to entail at least a _consideration_ of lifelong promises of domesticity. Wasn’t the beauty of their partnership, precisely, that they were unconventional people being freely and wonderfully unconventional together? Apparently, they knew each other inside and out and yet had seen what lay between them with entirely different eyes.

There had been many depressing months of fighting, even after the break-up, months of avoiding each other at the Ministry - including one memorable incident in which Tonks, after seeing Jean’s newly shaved head for the first time whilst sharing an elevator, sent a Howler to her desk upon discovering she wasn't able to change her own hair into anything longer than a buzzcut - before they had somehow managed to patch up the better parts of their union into something new and good. It was a light bruise to Jean’s ego to acknowledge that Tonks did not feel quite as nostalgic about their past, and perhaps had not done so for a long time.

“And I blew it. We haven’t spoken since that talk. I feel so embarrassed, Jean. Circe, he won’t even _look_ at me.”

“You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about, babe,” she said, reaching to squeeze her arm across the table. “You told him how you felt. That’s never a bad thing.”

“He already thinks of me as a child, and I went and made things all emotional and weird. I basically proved him right,” Tonks scoffed. A man sitting by himself at the table closest to them looked over sympathetically, which prompted her companion to discreetly lower a hand to her hip, where Jean guessed she had her wand holster, as she felt the subtle hum of a Muffliato charm. It was good to be out with an Auror.

“He _doesn’t_ think you’re a child,” she continued emphatically, taking a sip from her beer.

“How do you know?”

“…I have inside information.”

“You talked to Sirius?” Tonks buried her face in her hands.

“It’s a good thing I did. And he basically confirmed what we already knew! Listen to me,” she said, tearing her friend’s hands away from her face.

"Remus _likes_ you. He’s a proper fucking daffodil. If he didn’t, he’d have let you down very gently and pretended nothing happened. But instead he’s all bent out of shape when you’re around, even if someone just mentions your name. You got under his skin.”

Tonks shook her head sadly. Jean sighed.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to hope. Even if that were true…even if there were the tiniest chance he feels the same way, the fact is he’ll never do anything about it. I’m not gonna keep harassing the man, I’m ashamed enough as it is.”

“You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong! You shouldn’t want to be with someone that makes you feel ashamed of yourself.”

“It’s not him, it’s…like, you know I haven’t done much with blokes before. Not as a girl,” Tonks said awkwardly, nursing her beer.

“I know.”

“It’s a bit of a game changer. Like, the rules are different all of a sudden, but no one’s told me what they are. I’m not some skinny blond bombshell who knows how to act…I’m clumsy as fuck, I’m a big, queer weirdo,” she finished lamely.

“That’s loads of people’s type,” Jean said sternly.

“Not a guy’s. Not Remus…he’s older, he’s probably been with loads of women…”

“Okay, let’s pump the brakes here for a second, ‘cause I really don’t like how this is sounding.”

Jean took a long swig. She couldn’t help but resent Remus just a little.

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with who you are. I’m actually gonna pull the ex-girlfriend card and say, who you are is bloody brilliant.”

She held Tonks’ eyes with her own. Though she had become used, over the years, to engaging with her when she looked different than the picture in her mind's eye, this was a particularly challenging message to convey convincingly to this face.

“You’re perfect, Tonks. And there’s no shortage of people who will see what I see, and you shouldn’t settle for anything less than that.”

Tonks snorted, but couldn't hold back a smile, eyes gentle.

“And also, I will not stand for the disparaging of queer weirdos, my very favourite cohort of people, not today, not ever,” Jean continued, airily, “especially when you look like that.”

“Got me there."

“Now, the heterosexuality of it all. I can’t pretend I understand it any better than you, but it does come with a manual, we just haven’t paid loads of attention to it.” She paused, pondering. “Molly’s probably your best point of call on this one.”

“She’s wanted to help.” 

“Well, take as much of it as you can stand, I’d say. My last point,” Jean held up a hand, “not that it makes a difference, but I don’t get womaniser vibes from Remus. To be honest, I had him pegged him as gay until he came out with the whole _I’m too old_ thing. And Sirius hasn’t mentioned it either. My standing theory is, he’s what they call _sensitive_.”

“I’d peg him as gay,” Tonks said with a weak chuckle. “Get it. As a gay guy.”

“Yeah, I got it, babe.”

“You’ve talked to Sirius a lot about this then?”

“Not loads, just once. We were gonna come up with a plan to get you two together.”

“Oh god, please don’t, he’ll hate me even more,” she moaned.

“He doesn’t _hate_ you. And we never got around to it.”

“Been busy, then?” 

“Not really, definitely not since I got sacked.”

“I mean, busy doing other things with Sirius," Tonks asked with a sip of her pint that didn’t look entirely casual.

“I guess?” Jean shrugged, finishing her beer. “We eat together. We went to the beach that one time. It was actually quite fun, we had to go to St Mungo’s first for my bandages and we got disguises,” she rambled off, her mind replaying the memory of standing in the bathroom doorway watching Sirius shave his beard off with a practiced ease, the sharp aftershave, the palpable excitement in his clean-shaved face taking years off him. “Then we rode on his motorcycle. That part wasn't so fun.”

“Uh _huh,_ ” Tonks studied her.

“We’ve just done friend things. Stuff I miss doing with my housemates. Do you want any more?”

Jean gestured to the glasses, subtly palming her wand inside her jacket sleeve. At Tonks’ knowing nod, she murmured a replenishing charm under her breath.

“He showed me how to say hi to the hippogriff. And he said he'd take me flying on the bike, someday. I think it’s still hard for him to leave the house.”

“Mm hmm,” Tonks said with another ineffectively casual sip, which was starting to grate on Jean.

“This all sounds terribly romantic.”

She gaped at her friend, stunned.

“I’m not the one that’s come down with a sudden case of the straightness,” Jean scoffed.

“Hey, that’s…biphobic, I think.”

“Maybe, if I were saying it to a known bisexual. I haven’t heard you say it yet.”

“I don’t _know_ ,” she groaned. “It’s confusing. Sometimes, when I think about him, I have different bits, and I _feel_ like a guy, and we’re two guys together. But sometimes it’s better as a girl.”

“What about…like those times with us when you were…sort of both?” Jean said sheepishly.

“In my fantasies? Sure. Real life…” she sighed. “I don’t think it makes a difference.”

She smiled in wonder. There seemed to be no end to the depth of experience and feeling that Tonks’ abilities granted her. But then, she didn’t need to meet another Metamorphmagus to guess that it wasn’t the power to change her body at will, but rather the way that Tonks herself interpreted her experiences, that made her so boundlessly queer.

“Well, once you have a clearer idea of things, I promise I’ll try my best to refrain from straight jokes.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“What?”

Tonks smirked.

“Sirius? Are you… _serious_?”, she said, choking on her beer.

“Why not? You’re spending loads of time together, you get along, he’s fit.”

“He’s your _cousin_.”

“My very fit cousin,” she waggled her brows. “Come on, let me live vicariously through you. He was looking at you tonight, you know.”

“No he wasn’t.”

“Yeah he was. He was looking at you like he wanted to eat you up.”

“Oh, gross.” Jean grimaced.

“It really is,” Tonks replied, with a dramatic sigh. “Here I am, trying to get someone’s attention who wouldn’t look at me if I had tentacles coming out of my head, and you have his handsome best friend fall in your lap.”

“You can have him.”

“He’s my _cousin._ ”

“Oh, now it’s a problem? Thought that was your family tradition.”

“His family,” Tonks shook her head, “not mine, not really. I never met any of them.”

“No, but there’s a resemblance,” Jean mused. “I thought Sirius looked familiar the first time I saw him. That’s because you look like him in your, uh…,” she gestured broadly, “when you look like this.”

“I guess. Could be that’s what I’d be like if I’d been born a bloke. Or I just took inspiration from a family picture mum kept in the house,” she shrugged, “It was her and her sisters, and Sirius and his brother, posing. They all looked grim, but he'd wink at me. Seemed like someone you could be mates with.”

She tried picturing the younger "boy" Tonks from their Hogwarts years, at Grimmauld, sitting in a corner in stiff dress robes with a sci-fi paperback over his knees.

“Wouldn’t you look like Ted instead?”

“Honestly, I’ve no idea. No one seems to know anything about Metamorphmagi. My mom still has the brochure they gave her at St Mungo’s, and all it says is ‘can’t alter mass' and ‘abilities may be affected by emotional distress’, and they haven’t updated them since.”

“Well, I’m glad my company’s fixed things at least for tonight.”

“You always make things better. Even if you won’t have a torrid wartime tryst with Sirius for me,” Tonks said with a teasing smirk.

“Okay, this is starting to sound creepy,” Jean felt flustered. “Do you secretly want to fuck your cousin?”

“No, I want _you_ to get properly fucked and take advantage of what’s in front of you. He seems like he’d be up for it.”

“So I should just throw myself at any bloke that looks at me? 'Cause, not to sound conceited, but-”

“You’d be busy, I’m aware,” Tonks stopped her. “I’m obviously not telling you to think about it with, I don’t know, Fred and George,” she paused, contemplating, “although, that’s _maybe_ kind of hot…”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Tonks.”

“I’m not saying it’s a possibility because he was looking at you. Just that, you’re spending a lot of time together, you seem to have a good thing going. He’s hot, you’re hot,” she held her hands open in surrender, “why not?”

“Cause he’s a guy, that’s why.”

“So, absolutely no chance, not in any reality?”

Jean paused, thinking of the timber of his voice, the column of his neck.

“Okay,” she said slowly, “if we’re talking, say, we’ve been holed up in the house for months, maybe years, things are bad, everyone’s dying, and I don’t have time to dive into a full blown identity crisis…”

“…you’re desperate for someone’s touch, he gives you a look over the dinner table, and you just snap…” Tonks mimed a dramatic embrace.

“Yes, something like that, I guess,” Jean stared off, wonderingly. “Maybe it could be fun.”

“Aha!” Tonks cried victoriously.

“Don’t aha me. I said _maybe,_ ” she stressed. Then, just to humour the other witch, “I could just sit on his face.”

Tonks barked a laugh.

“There you go.”

“What do they even do, though?”, she questioned. “Straights? Isn’t it just ten minutes of jackhammering?”

“I don’t know. I hope not,” Tonks grimaced.

“So there _is_ hope.”

“Shut up,” she laughed.

*

  
At Tonks’ request, they cut their night short after a few more beers and agreed to head back to Grimmauld. They wove their way hand-in-hand through the loud, sprawling queues outside busy clubs. In one of the many smaller crowds, laughing and smoking by the pavement, Jean noticed someone familiar.

“Pete! Hey!”

She waved at a tall, lank blond in a sequined jacket. Peter was one of few Hogwarts alumni from their same year with whom she kept in touch. They hadn't known each other at school, but there was overlap in their extended Muggle friend circles in London. He nodded to his friends and stepped out to give her a one-armed hug.

“I haven’t seen you in ages. You haven’t been coming to Katie’s.“ He had introduced her to a small community of Muggle-born wizards and witches in the south who socialised together; Katie, a few years older than them, hosted potlucks where they took the Euphoria Elixirs she brewed for the high.

“I’ve been laying low. You know,” she said slyly. 

“Yeah, scary times,” he replied, catching the suggestion in her tone, “I’ve half a mind to leave the country if it really goes tits up. It’s gonna be especially bad for our kind.”

“You’re not wrong,” she said, noncommittally.“This is Tonks, by the way. I think you've met.”

“Sorry, no, I don’t remember.”

She realised her mistake, as of course Tonks didn’t look the same, or like what most people would see as a _her._

“Nice to meet you, though. I think we’re heading inside, if you wanna come?” he asked with a nod to his friends.

“Nah, we're headed home."

"Alright, well, I'll owl you sometime!"

She gave him a wink and a nod goodbye, watching the shock of blond hair and sequins disappear into a human mass. She tried not to think too hard about the likelihood of seeing him again.

“He’s right, you know,” Tonks said quietly once they were further away from the crowds. ”If they get control of the Ministry, it’s Muggle-borns and half-breeds that’ll be the first to…you know. Be affected.”

“I’m aware,” Jean said, somewhat unkindly. She pulled her jacket snug around her, absent-mindedly rubbing the scar on her left arm.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“I know. I’m sorry,” she sighed. “It's just when I'm around people like him, I realise how much it feels like a separate world,” she explained. “Like in Order meetings. We barely talk about what’s happening to Muggles, and Muggle-borns, and blood supremacy stuff. It’s all keeping tabs on this guy and that guy.”

“Yeah,” Tonks agreed, frowning. “Do you know he’s out with werewolves? It’s crazy. I’ve no idea what Dumbledore’s thinking…”  
  
“The party line is he wants Remus to recruit, isn't it?”

She didn’t feel particularly generous towards the headmaster either. She hadn’t yet heard back from him, and the last few meetings had felt perfunctory, no longer the full quorum, discussion-fuelled gatherings of before.

“And what, he’ll train an army of werewolves to fight on our side?”

“I don’t get it either,” she said, after a moment, squeezing her hand in reassurance.

"You know, jokes aside, I'm glad you took Sirius out. Really, he's needed someone to do it for a while. I thought about it loads of times, but I didn't want to cross Dumbledore, or even Mad-Eye."  
  
"Sometimes you need an outsider who doesn't know the playing field as well. Or can pretend not to, anyway," she said with a smile.

*

Jean tapped the tip of her wand to the door and pushed it slowly, trying her best to be quiet.

“What if Remus is there?”

“He never is.”

There was a thud.

“Oh fuck, _fuck,_ ” Tonks whimpered. Jean felt a surge of affection flood her and couldn’t hold back a giggle. She’d seen Tonks walking into things, breaking things, toppling things so often. Her ex-girlfriend didn’t walk, she glided, propelled by a constant excitement that was partly her own nature, and partly something entirely else about her. Jean had often thought it was related to her powers, that something on a molecular level about her itched to change, to morph, to move. For a moment, she contemplated offering to help her forget Remus, swilling the thought around in her mind like a mouthful of whiskey before recovering her reason.

“You can sleep in my bed of course, or I can take the couch. I think all of the other rooms are taken.”

“I’ll kip in yours, if that’s okay. But you better make me coffee in the morning,” she said with a yawn, as she moved upstairs.

Jean turned towards the kitchen instead, thinking of two glasses of water next to two wands on the bedside table, that abandoned ritual of so long ago.  
  
She charmed the torches alight and shrieked when a large shape appeared at the end of the table.

"Fucking hell, Sirius, I could've hexed you."

"Sorry," he said with a wry smile. He managed to look remarkably put-together for a man still drinking in his day clothes, and it struck her for the first time that he did, actually, drink quite a lot, but she had yet to see him pissed. 

"Gotta say, I'm a little offended that you'd rather sit and drink in the dark than come out with us," she said over her shoulder, looking for clean glasses in the cupboard.

"Couldn't sleep," he said simply. "And, while I'm flattered you think I could keep up, I figured there'd be a lot of whinging about a certain someone. I can turn on the wireless and listen to a _Witch Weekly_ serial for that."

"You're not wrong." She balanced herself on the back of the chair closest to her, at the opposite end of the table to him. There was an impulse to sit down and chat, keep their easy banter going, but Tonks would ask where she had been, and she would gloat, and she would be insufferable.

"About the second part. Clearly you'd have no problem drinking us both under the table."

He raised her his empty glass with a ironic nod and downed the rest. Then he peered at her, with a look she couldn't quite place.  
  
"You looked very nice tonight," he said smoothly, but as soon the last syllable left his lips the words seemed to hang heavily in the air.

Could Tonks be right? Normally, she would automatically volley back a casual, sometimes aggrieved, "thanks" and pivot. She couldn't care less what people - men - expected she provide in exchange for their attention; that stupid look that begged reassurance, validation. But something held the instinct back, as if it needed to be triggered by an annoyance that wasn't there. And yet Sirius was clearly waiting for something, and she realised a beat had already passed since someone spoke.

"This?", she nodded to her dress with a nervous laugh. "Don't let Molly hear you say that."

She cringed almost as soon as she said it. 

"The keeper of propriety," he nodded, immune to her inner agitation. "I, uh, didn't mean anything by it, love. Just that you looked nice." 

This _nice_ sounded very different from the first _nice_ , so much thinner, and she was a little impressed by his skill. But then, Sirius had revealed himself to be someone who was skilled at very many things.

"You wouldn't believe the talk she gave me before I moved in here. On _propriety._ " 

Had she had more to drink than she realised? She didn't think she would ever breathe a word of that excruciating conversation to anyone, save for Tonks, but that was before she had tried, so very enthusiastically, to make a case for the exact same scenario that Molly was convinced was unavoidable should proper rules not be observed.

Sirius laughed, warm and devoid of offence.

"Wouldn't expect any less of her. Let me guess, show no skin, six feet apart at all times, and demand a letter of intention if I stray?"

"Something like that," she winced, very much regretting this entire incursion.

His gaze softened, still smiling.

"I may be a lot of things, Jean, but I'm not a dog." He snorted. "Well, I am, but-"

"I know what you mean," she said. "I don't give a fuck. I do what I want with my mates."

His grey eyes widened by a fraction, and she realised she was definitely putting her foot in her mouth, and she had definitely had more beers than she thought, and she definitely needed to get to bed.

"I mean- sorry, I think I'm a bit sozzled. I _mean_ , it pisses me off to have someone tell me what I can and can't do with my friends. I've lived with men before, and sometimes you're going to accidentally see each others' bits, or wrestle over the remote. It's just life, maybe not hers, but it's just how it is."

"Well, I don't know what a remote is, but I'm sure we can find something to wrestle over," he said, looking as if he was trying to hide a smirk.

Fuzzy shapes moved in her mind, and a half-formed thought came to her, like whiskey, like asking Tonks if she wanted to have a go. 

Clearly, it had been longer than she thought since she'd last had a bit of human touch. 

"We will," she agreed, and grabbed the two glasses she came for. "I'm heading up. Hope you can get some sleep."

Sirius bade her goodnight with a bemused smile, and she followed the darkness into the foyer and up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this one. Thank you to everyone who's left kudos so far!


End file.
